October
by santeria80
Summary: Reality. It's what she's trying to escape. Of course, a pesky blue-eyed bloodsucker won't let that happen.


**A/N : I don't know what this is or where it came from. This little thing is the baby of me watching The Hunger Games and lurking the Bamon tag on Tumblr at the same time. I'm planning on doing an actual real story, and this just came out in the meantime. I'm aware of the errors. So be gentle :) The formatting might change a bit so don't be alarmed. This is me just figuring out the site again, really. Love you guys!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or The Vampire Diaries. Sadly.**

"Playing hooky, eh? Doesn't this go against the _Bonnie Bible_?", an all too familiar voice taunts. It doesn't sound close; it's almost as if she imagined it. Infuriating all the same.

But she doesn't turn around. No, she refuses. Turning around and seeing the black mess of hair, the stupid smirk, and the horribly alluring blue eyes would only make his existence that much more real.

Real. Reality. It's what she's trying to escape today.

The mocha-skinned, burdened little witch had woken up that morning with a clear head. A cheerful spirit. Today had marked the first day of October, and that made her…_happy_. It's become a strange feeling, this _happiness_, and with the crisp, coolness of the air and the sound of falling leaves, she was uplifted. Fall. It had always been her favorite season, but with the constant craziness called Mystic Falls, namely Elena Gilbert, she hasn't even had time to prepare for it.

To be excited about fall, about _anything_, has become a foreign notion.

So from the moment she awoke, she decided to ditch school. She was a senior after all, and missing one day couldn't hurt. It's not like she actually had a guardian or anyone to motivate her. To "parent" her.

Her father is far off – as always. The last time they spoke, a few months ago, he mentioned visiting Australia. She's long since stopped caring, or asking. He doesn't try, either. The lame excuses and empty promises were for when she was younger - naïve, willing, easy to please. But now…it seems he's gotten tired of lying. So they've given up. An occasional souvenir from wherever he is, and a short phone call every once in a while. It's easier that way.

She shoots. Arrows, that is. It's something she and her father did when she was younger. Before everything somehow went left. He'd take her deep into the woods, secure a miniature bow and arrows on her tiny shoulder, and send these silly, plastic birds flying through the air. Whenever she'd manage to take one down, he would look at her with such pride in his eyes. She remembered feeling…_loved_. Accomplished. Maybe that's why she took it up.

It became something of a hobby. It's something she would prefer to keep to herself; it's something to remind her of her father. It's something _they_ can't take away.

She wouldn't shoot those God-awful plastic things anymore – and real birds, or anything of the sort, were out of the question. So she went for odd things – a crack in a tree, a tiny leaf hanging from a branch. It gave her something to focus on. It took her mind off of the feeling of being used and the lonely nights.

So after raking her long curly hair into a high ponytail, and quickly pulling on a sweater, pants, gloves, and boots – it's colder than she expected – she grabbed her crossbow. It's an expensive, silver thing given to her by her father recently. It just showed up at the door one day, a big FedEx box wrapped with a pink bow. She doesn't know where he got it. Sometimes, she likes to guess – Spain…Paris…Italy? Either way, he never told her, and she never asked.

She got in her car and drove. She soon found herself in a little meadow in town – too close for comfort, actually. She was about half an hour from the school, but who cares? It's not like anyone would actually come looking for her. No one came for her.

She had been walking around aimlessly, shooting around at bigger things first – she was terribly out of practice – when she heard his infuriating voice.

'_Maybe if I just ignore him-_' her thoughts were cut short by a very audible crunch of a leaf just behind her.

She whips around – thinking that maybe she should've laced the arrows with vervain – to come face to face with nothing. She almost feels foolish; the brisk wind slapping her face to mock her. But she _feels_ him. Oh, she feels the death, the homicidal narcissism radiating from him in waves that chill her more than the wind ever could.

She turns around once more to look him in the eyes – eyes that pierce her and make her heart beat faster than she's like to admit.

"You know Bon-Bon, you should really be more careful-" He pauses to flick at the strap at her shoulder. "- there are other monsters around here not as nice – or ridiculously sexy as me-" Another flick. "- and you're little target practice will get you nowhere."


End file.
